


SIMMER DOWN AND PUCKER UP

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Crack, Johnlock Fluff, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, Love, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, professing love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you shut up John Watson? Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	SIMMER DOWN AND PUCKER UP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frantickled](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frantickled).



> The title comes from the amazing Arctic Monkeys song, "Do I Wanna Know". The characters and some words belong to SM/MG/Hartswood; I just take them out to play with.

The front door of 221 Baker Street blew open as John Watson pushed through and pounded up the stairs to flat B yelling at Sherlock who was likely still paying the taxi driver.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You almost got us fucking KILLED out there. You can't keep...”

"Fucking got us killed," Sherlock said, walking into the flat, removing his woolen scarf and the heavy Belstaff coat and meticulously hanging them on the coat rack.

“What?” John whirled around, looking into Sherlock's face. This New Sherlock, the One Who Came Back to him, was changed. Different. Funny. Was this one of his misguided attempts at humor?

“You said 'got us fucking killed.' That makes no sense grammatically, John. I believe you meant 'fucking got us killed.' You have to put the modifier...” His Harrow teacher voice ran up John's spine, like fingernails on a chalkboard. John loathed it. Despised it. Made him want to head-butt Sherlock.

“Are you fucking **_really_** correcting my goddamn FUCKING grammar?” John said each word deliberately, advancing on Sherlock who slowly backed away toward the fireplace.

“No. That last sentence would be quite difficult to correct,” Sherlock laughed. John didn't see the humor. Come to think if it, Sherlock hadn't actually seen this look in John's eyes since that Night He Came Back...when Sherlock was funny and charming and surprised John.

“Goddammit, Sherlock. I am not fucking around. You almost got us killed that time and if it hadn't been for that recycling skip below us overflowing with cardboard boxes, that clown would have killed us.”

“Yes, you are right, John. I had missed the fact that he indeed would _be_ a clown. Well I say a clown. I obviously mean our drug dealing murder DRESSED as a clown...”

John's left hand, flexing in and out of a fist, caught Sherlock's eye. That clearly meant danger. That and the fact John Watson was now within arm's distance of Sherlock, whose back was pressed against the mantle. Nowhere else to go.

“Sherlock. This. _Will_. Change,” John said, close enough that his breath warmed Sherlock's face frozen from the midnight February escapade. His eyes held no warmth or humor. Dark. Set. Angry.  “You will NOT die again. Do you understand? I can't do that again.” John pointed his finger in Sherlock's face to underscore his anger.

“I won't die, John. You're being sentimental again.”

“You can die and one day, you will die, Sherlock,” John said, his voice strained. These things weren't easy for him. “But it won't be on my watch.”

Sherlock slowly raised his own hand to John's pointing finger and enveloped it, wrapping his own fingers around it. He drew John's finger to his mouth before letting it go.

“What did you just do,” John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I contracted my two orbicularis oris muscles upon the tip of your finger. You truly are dull today, John.' Sherlock said.

“You kissed my finger,” John said, perplexed and annoyed. “I know what you did. I want to know _why_ you did it.”

“At the time, it seemed easier than this.” Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John's and lightly kissed his best friend. His only friend.

“What. Was. That.”

“Did I get it wrong? Let me...” This time, Sherlock slid his hand behind John's neck and into his hair and pulled the doctor forward. His lips, so soft like his hand John thought fleetingly, covered John's, moving slowly, opening and encouraging John's to open also. When John pulled back, Sherlock furrowed his brow in question.

“No. no. You didn't get it wrong. You got it quite right,” John said, flustered, hoping Sherlock's eyes stayed on John's and didn't stray any lower. “Why, Sherlock? Why did you do that?”

“It's February 14, John. Saint Valentine's Day. The day you tell people in special and unique ways that they are important to you,” Sherlock clearly repeated an ad from the telly. “Plus, I need you to stop yelling.”

“I'm not yelling!” John shouted.

Sherlock leaned in, and for a moment John wished THOUGHT, HE MEANT THOUGHT, Sherlock was going to kiss him again. “Yes, you are,” he whispered in John's ear. His warm breath tickled John's ear, sending a different shiver up his spine.

“No. I'm. NOT.” In his anger and confusion, John had further advanced on Sherlock; his nose touched Sherlock's. With a tilt of the head, he leaned in and took a kiss. Hasty and unsophisticated. Too much raking teeth and not enough soft lip.

Oh God yes. Sherlock kissed back, taking John’s passion and making it his own. His hands stroked John’s back, his neck. John brought his hands to those tumbling dark curls, unruly like their owner, untamed, wild and fierce, and pulled back knocking Sherlock’s head into the skull on the mantle.

“What did you just do?” Sherlock asked, breathless and feral. “No. I know what. I want to know why.”

“Because, Sherlock. Look at me. At me,” John said, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and touching their foreheads together. “Because I need that. I need you. But not if it changes us, because I can’t lose us again. Twice was too much. Three times would kill me.”

“I made a vow to do whatever it would take to protect you. I failed once; I will not fail again.” Sherlock stroked John’s cheek with his thumb before kissing him again. “My doctor. My John Watson.” John’s half sob response caught Sherlock off guard. “Don’t worry. No clown will separate us again!” John giggled, partly in relief and partly with the bad pun.

“Come with me,” Sherlock reached for John’s hand. “No questions, please,” as John tried to ask. He followed Sherlock down the narrow hall to his room. In the time he’d lived here, John rarely entered this inner sanctum. Nothing surprising…decadent Egyptian cotton sheets on the king sized bed. Karate certificate for You-dan level Black Belt. Framed periodic table of the elements.

"That's an incredible picture of a lightning storm." John walked to the side of the bed to get a closer look at the oversized framed photograph hanging over the bed. 

"That's a neuron storm taken with a high power microscope," Sherlock stood behind John, wrapping his arms around and twining their fingers.  

"Beautiful."

"Yes," he said, gently turning John to face him. "You are." With two fingers he held John's chin and lightly brushed his lips against his best friend’s. Here, in the bedroom, would he agree?

His sigh, really a moan, answered Sherlock. 

"I know many words, John, but not one is right for now." Sherlock's voiced quavered, on the cusp of a sob of joy.

"Let me." John took Sherlock's hand in his and kissed it tenderly. A kiss that took two years together and two years apart to beget. "The word is us. Who you are. Who I am. Our pasts alone. Our future together. The word is forgiveness. It's hope. My friend. My best friend. The word is love."

John brought their bodies together, not as friends but as lovers. Here. In front of the neuron storm, the table of the most base elements. On the decadent sheets perfect for the two of them.

He lowered to one knee and untied Sherlock’s Oxford shoes, right first, then left. He removed them slowly, careful not to touch Sherlock’s soles lest he be ticklish. Why don’t I know if he’s ticklish, John thought.

With the shoes removed, John asked Sherlock to move to the center of the bed and roll onto his right side. Sherlock did as he was asked, a hitch in his breathing with the not knowing.

John slid onto the bed, minus only his own shoes, curving his own body into Sherlock’s. The little spoon. He thought he could feel Sherlock’s ribs against his, as he snugged in closer. John knew he could feel Sherlock’s desire pressing into his arse. Sherlock was not embarrassed by his love, and John clearly enjoyed it, backing further into Sherlock.

“John, would you…would you want to…have sex?” In Sherlock’s experience, people wanted sex. They wanted to have it, control it, and leave it.

“Making love, Sherlock,” John said quietly, holding the hand that had moved over his waist. “When you love someone, it’s called making love.”

“Do you want to make love? It _is_ Valentine’s Day.”

“I already am, my beautiful friend,” John answered with a heartfelt sigh. “I already am.”

**Author's Note:**

> So Many thanks to the best Beta ever: http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls . Best Beta. Bestest Friend.
> 
> For the JohnLock Valentine's Day challenge


End file.
